do.
She squeezed the device, and it buzzed quietly. When Jennifer turned to the police officers again, she saw them twist away, nauseated. When they faced towards her, the feeling got worse. Once they turned away, the effect reduced.
Jennifer slipped under the barrier and marched towards the store. She avoided looking at the blood and glass that spilled from the broken-backed bus, keeping her eyes on the shop displays instead. One large window was filled with Halloween costumes – cackling witches, illuminated pumpkins, and some cruel-faced clowns with fangs in their huge red mouths. The next window was decorated with cartoon monsters, and a poster that declared: ‘MonstaQuest Demonstration Today. Wendleby’s Toy Department, Fourth Floor.’
She pushed through the barrier that had been placed inside the store to prevent customers leaving by the exits nearest to the accident. The late-afternoon shopping crowds had not diminished, and Jennifer used the nausea device to part the crowds and make her way to the escalators unimpeded.
As she negotiated the top of the second-floor escalator, an old man in a pork pie hat became wildly disoriented by the nausea device, and staggered into her. The device jolted out of her hand, bounced once on the rubber handrail, and dropped into the down escalator. Jennifer dithered for a moment at the top of the up escalator, undecided about whether to try and retrieve the device.
The crowd behind her began to recover their composure, a continuous stream of people pushing past as they continued onto the floor. No time, decided Jennifer. She had to press on, and reach the fourth floor. Reach Gareth before Torchwood did.
David Brigstocke hated the crush of Saturday shopping. But today, he decided, he hated Eleri Francis even more.
This was a trivial news assignment, and he believed Eleri must have known that. He was supposed to be covering the aftermath of the bus crash in the street outside, but his editor had sent him into the store and up to the toy department instead. One of the Wendleby’s staff had phoned the radio news office with a tip-off that Martina Baldachi had been spotted buying gifts. More likely one of Martina’s PRs had tipped them off. ‘Send Ieuan Walters,’ countered Brigstocke. ‘Isn’t that why we have an Entertainment Correspondent?’ This was the same old office bullshit. It had been like this since he’d overheard them talking about him in the canteen, in Welsh, stupidly assuming that he couldn’t understand. They’d understood him, all right, after Brigstocke confronted them and explained what he thought of them. In Welsh.
‘Ieuan’s at the Mid-Wales Beer Festival in Llanwrtyd Wells,’ Eleri had replied. ‘You’ll find the toy department on the fourth floor.’
Brigstocke had managed to have a bit of fun at Martina Baldachi’s expense during the interview. That wouldn’t go down well with Eleri, he supposed, but with a live feed it was too late for her to do anything about that. Now he was on a down escalator, evaluating whether he still had time to get to the crash site, when he spotted a familiar figure hobbling into the store.
Captain Jack Harkness.
Brigstocke caught up with him by the service lift.
‘It won’t come any faster if you keep pressing the button like that.’
Brigstocke was pleased to see Harkness’s exasperated reaction.
‘Kinda busy.’
‘As always,’ replied Brigstocke. ‘You’re looking good for someone whose foot was almost severed at the zoo.’ He watched Harkness involuntarily look at his own left foot. ‘I spoke to the paramedics, Jack. You can’t fool medical professionals about that kind of thing.’
Harkness gave up on the service lift, and limped across to the escalator instead. He paused before stepping on. At first, Brigstocke thought he was being cautious about his injured foot. Until he realised that Harkness wasn’t entirely sure where he was going.
‘You want to help?’ Harkness had narrowed his eyes, looking for a reaction. He leaned in close to speak into Brigstocke’s ear. ‘That kid you were interviewing earlier? He’s a terrorist suspect, and we need to track him down. No, put the digital recorder down.’
‘It’s a phone,’ said Brigstocke. ‘I’m calling the police.’
Harkness closed his hands over the phone, folding the casing shut in Brigstocke’s palm. ‘We
‘No you’re not. I’ve talked to the police about Torchwood.’
‘Do you want to help or not?’
Brigstocke licked his lips as he pondered this. Across the aisle from them a customer lift dinged as it arrived at their floor. Brigstocke put his phone back in his jacket pocket. ‘Toy department. Fourth floor.’
Brigstocke jumped into the lift and held the door, gesturing for Harkness to join him. As well as helping, it kept him close to his quarry.
Harkness limped over. Before he got in, he tapped at his ear and said: ‘Ianto? Hold off for a couple of minutes.’
Gareth Portland hated everyone. They bustled past him where he sat at his stand on the fourth floor, unconcerned whether he was alive or dead.
But he was so alive. More than he had ever been in his whole life.
The Visualiser purred in his hand. It spoke to him. Reassured him. Knew him. Loved him.
The world moved past Gareth Portland, uncaring. So it was time for the world to change.
TWENTY-ONE
When Jennifer Portland saw her son sitting alone in the toy department, she thought her heart would finally break.
All around this area of the sales floor, eager children squealed with delight as their parents guided them through the toy displays. But there was no clamour about the MonstaQuest sales stand. Gareth sat to one side of it in a bucket seat. Stacked piles of unsold card packs teetered beside him. His head was bowed, and he was studying his hands. It brought back sharp and painful memories of seeing her teenage son at home, after another awful day at his savage Secondary, slumped in an uncommunicative heap at the dinner table.
The MonstaQuest stand was flanked by two cardboard monsters. They were exaggerated caricatures from the pack, blown up to life size, standing guard, designed to attract customers. Jennifer recognised them as a Weevil and a Hoix.
She approached quietly. Gareth was studying the VIP tickets he’d been given for the international match. A couple of students strolled up to pester him.
‘I’m on a break,’ Gareth told them without looking up. Jennifer suddenly realised how long it was since she’d heard his voice.
The students wanted to buy the tickets from him. Gareth responded not by looking at the students but by clutching the tickets to his chest. It was a protective gesture that Jennifer recognised from his childhood, that she’d seen him do with a favourite toy.
‘They’re not for sale,’ Gareth said.
‘Come on, Harry,’ one of the students said to his mate, tugging his arm. ‘We’ll have to try the touts instead.’ He kicked the leg of Gareth’s chair. ‘Don’t want your lousy tickets, mate.’
‘Or your stupid card game,’ added Harry. He prodded one of the stacked piles of MonstaQuest cards, and it toppled over against the foot of the Hoix.
Gareth stood up angrily, but the students had already strolled off. Jennifer saw a murderous look in her son’s eyes. She’d seen that in the Achenbrite CCTV cameras earlier. It was a cold, unspoken fury that warned of coming violence the way that dark clouds threatened rain.
The Visualiser device was in Gareth’s hands. It was only when he looked up again that he saw his mother watching.
